


School Bus Yellow and Seafoam Green

by DarylDixonGrimes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: First Kisses, Group Home, M/M, Misogyny, falling in love all over again, first boyfriends, hand holding, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-28 05:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13264578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarylDixonGrimes/pseuds/DarylDixonGrimes
Summary: "He’s sure the second he sees those eyes, but he talks himself out of it, tells himself it’s not possible. Here, all these years later, miles and miles from Atlanta, it can’t be him. He was never a math whiz, but even he knows a statistical anomaly when he sees one."Or the one where Daryl and Paul first met at thirteen in a group home in Atlanta.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TooRational](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/gifts).



At a run-down gas station in the middle of nowhere, Daryl’s life turns upside-down _—_ afull 180-degree rotation that leaves him feeling like he’s dangling from the Earth, his shoes glued to the pavement while trees and rocks and everything else go hurtling up into the wide blue sky.

He’s sure the second he sees  _those eyes_ , but he talks himself out of it, tells himself it’s not possible. Here, all these years later, miles and miles from Atlanta, it can’t be him. He was never a math whiz, but even he knows a statistical anomaly when he sees one.

“Yeah, well there’s more of them than us, right? Gotta stick together,” Can’t-Be says. And Daryl can’t move, frozen there with his gun trained on him, his whole arm trembling. He watches the guy tilt his upper body, eyebrows questioning. “Right?”

Daryl finally lets it drop, lungs constricting. He tries again to tell himself that it’s impossible, that it’s an uncanny coincidence and nothing more, that the odds are so unbelievably slim that they may as well not exist.

“I’m Rick. This is Daryl. What’s your name?”

The guy turns, pulling the bandanna off his face, and then Daryl’s so sure it’s him that his heart skips not one beat, but thirty. Or it feels that way anyway. His chest is a cavern full of uncomfortable silence—hollow and still.

Daryl says “Paul” before Paul can, breathing the word into existence while his mind hurtles backwards through time.

* * *

_Daryl was thirteen when he ended up at the group home in Atlanta. His mother gone, Merle off God only knew where, and his dad under investigation because of his brother’s truancy of all things—child services had to step in. And Daryl had no family who passed the state’s stringent rules for fostering, so they carted him off to the city and threw him in some facility with a hundred other boys._

_It was called a “home” but it felt more like a prison. There were rules upon rules, bare white walls that screamed of institution and not comfort, dorm rooms packed full with metal bunk beds, meals served in a mess hall with long tables. Everything was scheduled out from showers to recreation to fucking therapy. He hated all of it. Hated that he couldn’t just walk out the back door and into the woods. Hated that even if he could, there were no woods to speak of. Just dirty sidewalks and buildings that towered over him like giants made of steel and concrete._

_The boys weren’t much better than the situation. They squabbled and stole from each other at every opportunity. He figured it was the kind of place that warranted keeping his head down and making as few waves as possible. If he needed to, he’d stand his ground and show he wasn’t to be messed with. No more, no less._

_He’d survived much worse than the wrath of teenage boys._

_But even he was surprised when Paul Rovia approached him on his second day, sitting down across from him in the dining hall, their plastic trays butting together with a dull click. He thought it would be one of the older or bigger boys who would come to him first, to assert dominance or even try to recruit him into one of their pseudo-gangs. But this little wisp of a person?_

_“You’re new, right? I’m Paul.” He smiled at Daryl and attempted to cut what was allegedly chicken fried steak with his plastic knife._

_Daryl stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowing while he studied everything. Eyes that reminded Daryl of one of the loose marbles back home in his sock drawer, the short too-clean haircut that was nearly a mirror image of Daryl’s. That had been the first thing they’d done when he got there, tell him that his mop of hair was against the rules and then slice it off while he fussed at them._  
  
_Nothing made a kid feel safe and welcome like telling him his hair was a violation and had to go._

_“Fuck off,” Daryl said, agitating a pile of rubbery corn with his plastic fork. And then the fucker actually had the audacity to throw him an amused smile, like he thought that reaction to his introduction was funny. Like he thought Daryl was funny._

_So Daryl did the one thing Dixons are good at and knocked the smile right off his face, following his fist over the table to tackle him on the floor while other boys gathered round, cheering “fight, fight, fight!”_

_It was a draw in the end, both of them split-lipped and bloody, sentenced to scrub toilets for a month._

* * *

Recognition dawns on Paul’s face slowly, like the sun rising and pushing away darkness and confusion until no trace of it remains. Daryl can’t blame him for taking a minute to recognize him. They both look so different with decades between then and now, with beards and long brown locks. He decides long hair suits Paul well. He looks a little like the Jesus figurine Daryl’s mother used to keep in the living room window.

He keeps staring, connecting the body before him to the boy he once knew.

It definitely seems like time has been kinder to Paul than him, and by a long shot too. Where Daryl’s haggard and wrinkled and sun-worn, Paul’s smooth as porcelain, even more physically captivating than he had been when they were boys.

“Daryl,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, and then recognition turns to joy. The arms Paul throws around him are too familiar considering how long it’s been. Daryl doesn’t even stiffen, melting into them like it was just yesterday.

* * *

_“This fuckin blows,” Daryl said, elbow deep in a porcelain bowl, a scrub brush in his hand. Not that he didn’t know it before, but in the past few days, he’d come to the irrevocable conclusion that teenage boys were fucking disgusting._

_“Maybe you’ll remember that next time someone’s trying to be nice to you,” Paul said, nose wrinkled while he scrubbed at some stain on the floor under the sink. Whatever it was, it was green and sticky and smelled like day-old ass._

_“You shouldn’t’ve laughed at me,” Daryl said, but there was no heart in the words. They’d already had this same argument three or four times, and Paul had gotten tired of explaining himself after the second. Daryl wasn’t sure either of them really meant any of it anymore. Huffing, he added a flat-toned, “asshole” at the end just because._

_“Maybe I shouldn’t have,” Paul said. “But then we wouldn’t have gotten to spend so much time together.”_

_Daryl balled up a soiled paper towel and threw it at him, earning him a hissed “gross!” while Paul ducked out of the way._

_“Prick,” Daryl said._

_“Jerk.”_

_It took them an hour longer to clean that day than it had the days before._

* * *

“You two know each other?” Rick asks. Paul finally lets him go, pulling back and leaving his hands on Daryl’s biceps. He looks him over.

“You look amazing,” he says. And Daryl honest-to-God swears he’s blushing. He doesn’t reply, swallowing thickly and turning to Rick instead. Paul’s hands finally slip off his arms.

“From a long time ago,” Daryl answers. There had always been an unspoken rule in the group home about outing each other as foster kids. Rick knows he spent some time in the system as a kid, but he doesn’t know that about Paul, and it’s not Daryl’s place to tell him.

“A very long time,” Paul says, fishing in his pocket. “I guess we should start over.”

He throws the keys to the truck at Rick, which has Rick patting his own pockets like he can’t believe they weren’t in there the whole time.

“Prick,” Daryl says, shaking his head.

“Jerk,” Paul says back easily. “I lied by the way. I do have a camp.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “So do we.” 

* * *

_By the end of the first week, Paul and Daryl were something like friends. At the very least, they were amicable with each other, enough so that they were released from their community service sentences early for good behavior._

_Neither of them complained about that._

_“If I’d known that was all it took to get out of toilet duty, I might have pretended to like you sooner,” Paul said._  
  
_“Least we don’t gotta pretend now,” Daryl said, trying not to think too hard about how quickly Paul had grown on him. A task which he massively failed to do even remotely well._

_Because by the end of the second week, Daryl knew exactly why he felt like an idiot whenever the other boys his age would talk about girls at school and in the dorms and out in the yard where they sometimes played basketball._

_Because Paul Rovia was not a girl, not even close, but that fact did jack all to keep Daryl from staring at him like he was the cutest puppy in the pound._

_Sometimes, he thought Paul stared back._

* * *

Paul rides back to Alexandria with them, squished between Rick and Daryl in the middle seat. Appearances aside, Daryl swears he’s exactly the same while he stares out the window, trying not to think about just how hyperaware he is of Paul’s duster jacket pressing against his arm. Of the warmth where their thighs rest against one another.

“I thought about you once when this all started,” Paul says. Daryl turns his attention away from the blur of trees outside momentarily, throwing a glance at him. 

“Yeah?”   
  
“I thought I had the virus,” he says. “I was holed up in an empty office building in the suburbs. I don’t know what it really was, food poisoning maybe. But I spent two days hugging a toilet coming to terms with the fact that I was probably dying.”

Daryl turns his full attention to him then. He can empathize. Hell, they all can. There’s no existing anymore without death following you around and waiting for you to drop. But God the first time Daryl faced mortality in the new world was fucking terrifying. It had to be even worse being alone, not knowing if you had someone there to put you down, to keep you from becoming one of the dead.   
  
“And I kept thinking that when the world settled back down,” Paul continues, “whoever had to deal with that bathroom was going to hate me. And then I thought of you and wondered where you were. I even went as far as convincing myself that you’d make it. I thought about that day an animal had strewn trash all over the rec yard and everyone said it was probably a raccoon. But not you. You walked right up and said it was a dog.”

“It  _was_  a dog,” Daryl says, with a touch of irritation when he remembers how much Tommy ‘King T’ Stevens had argued with him, how he’d pressed a finger into Daryl’s chest until it hurt. “Damn print was right there.”   
  
“I know. I believed you then and I still do.” He smiles at Daryl warmly and pats him on the leg. “I knew if anyone had what it takes to survive in this, it would be you. I suppose I was right.”

“Act like you don’t got it too,” Daryl says. He remembers full well that it was Paul who tackled King T that day in the yard. One minute, Daryl’d been staring him down, ignoring the pain blossoming from that small point of contact, and the next, Paul had him pinned on the ground, slamming his tiny fists into his face.   
  
Daryl looks away again, back outside where blue light flickers through leaves like a strobe. He’s thought about Paul a lot too over the years, including the ones post-outbreak. Little flashes here and there when people talked about their past. The first big memory came when he saw Glenn and Maggie walking together one day at the farm. At the time, they’d thought they were being sneaky. 

* * *

_Paul and Daryl held hands for the first time on the school bus. Sitting together had become a fast tradition for them. The other boys would only sit by Daryl reluctantly when there was nowhere else for them to go. And while Paul was less ostracized, he also didn’t care much for anyone else’s company. So when the two of them became friends, it was a natural progression of events._  
  
_It drove Daryl crazy, or it did as soon as he realized he had some kind of a crush. Sometimes he considered climbing up on the seat and throwing himself out of the open window, which was silly because even as a scrawny barely-teen, those windows were still probably too small to accommodate the berth of his shoulders._

_So he was stuck with Paul. Too nervous around him to do anything but reply with as few words as possible, too enamored with him to push him away._  
  
_Weeks of torture followed. Paul was a year ahead of him in school (Daryl had failed fourth grade), so they had different classes. But that didn’t keep him from staring at Paul in the hallways, from sitting with him at lunch, their knees bumping under the table. It didn’t stop them from eating together in the group home or playing one-on-one on the rare days when the basketball courts weren’t overflowing because the rest of the boys had decided to busy themselves with something else._  
  
_It also didn’t stop Daryl’s chest and stomach from feeling both too heavy and too light simultaneously at the slightest touch of their hands when Paul high fived him or when they hit a bump on the school bus that forced their thighs together for a split second._  
  
_And it certainly didn’t stop him from feeling like he was **drowning** when Paul would flash him a smile that lit up those green-blue eyes. Or when Paul started sitting close enough to him on the bus that their thighs  **always** touched._

_Weeks of torment, of Daryl nodding along whenever the boys would start chatting about how Tina Morales had definitely filled out over the summer or how Katie Williams was stacked like a deck of cards. He’d never noticed either of them beyond the fact that they existed._  
  
_But he noticed Paul. He even found himself pausing outside his room on the way to the bathroom at night. One night he was sure he heard him make a quiet noise in his sleep, but it could have been any of his roommates. The noise wasn’t distinctive enough for him to be sure, though he obsessed over it for days anyway._

_The day Paul held his hand, Daryl would later spend all night thinking about the series of circumstances that had all seemed to come together to make that Earth-shattering moment possible._

_First, he landed the coveted back seat on the school bus, which meant he and Paul were stuck all the way in the rear of the yellow monster. Out of sight, out of mind._  
  
_Second, Tammy Jones sat in the one-seater across from them. She was one of the few people on their bus route that wasn’t from the home, which meant she got off long before they did, which meant that the second she got off, they would be effectively alone in the back row._

_Third, Corey McReady decided to stuff his shirt with balled up notebook paper and pretend to be Tina Morales. Every other eye on the bus was focused on his lackluster performance while he knelt in his seat and adjusted his faux breasts. Daryl turned to see if Paul was watching it, quietly praying that if he was, he at least wasn’t enjoying it. He nearly choked, coughing and gasping for air, when he found Paul resting his head against the back of the seat ahead of them instead, his seafoam eyes turned toward him._

_Sometimes, he was one hundred and ten percent sure that Paul stared back._

_The minute Tammy Jones got up, Daryl could feel that something was different. It was like the air before a thunderstorm, the ions prickling at the hair on his arms, the smell of rain thick and humid and heavy around them. He turned away from Paul, not toward Corey but toward the window. Beside them a toddler in the backseat of her dad’s car saw him and waved up. He raised one hand and wiggled his fingers. She had to be about three, maybe younger. Daryl hated most people, but he had a soft spot babies and toddlers. They were still too young to know that they were supposed to think he was scum._

_He and the little girl kept waving at each other until the car turned right, and then he was stuck with a cement mixer when it pulled up to take the car’s place. He watched it turn and turn and-_  
  
_The first brush of Paul’s fingers against his could have been an accident, and Daryl was so convinced it might be that he was too terrified to even turn back to look at his seat mate. He didn’t want to break the spell. He kept his eyes focused outside, leaving his hand as still as stone on his left knee. His right hand twitched on the opposite side._  
  
_It wasn’t an accident._

_Fingers slid between his, and then and only then did Daryl decide it was safe enough to turn his hand over and let Paul take it._

_He felt the words ‘the hell are you doin?’ sitting on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them down. His father wasn’t there. Merle wasn’t there. No one would ever have to know about this if he even saw them again. And God, he wanted it. He wanted it so damn much._

_Slowly, he turned his head. Paul still had his resting against the seat, but he was looking at their hands now, joined together on Daryl’s knee. Paul watched himself rub circles on Daryl’s palm with his thumb._

_Daryl looked up, at Corey giggling and batting his eyelashes at Raphael. Everyone else was still looking at him. Even the two boys in front of them—he thought their names were Mike and Jazz—were leaning up over the seat ahead of them, arms flailing with the wild energy of everyone else on the bus. The bus driver, as usual, gave no shits about anything as long as no one was bleeding._

_Daryl turned back toward Paul and whispered, “I don’t like Tina Morales.” He wondered if Paul could read between the lines of that confession, if he realized that Tina was a stand-in for literally any girl he’d ever seen._

_“I don’t either,” Paul whispered back. “But I like you.”_

_They held hands until the bus pulled up to the group home._

* * *

Back in Alexandria, they divide the contents of the truck. Daryl had promised him half before they could even have a discussion, and he can feel Rick simmering a bit at not even being consulted. But Rick refrains from saying anything, traipsing off with a box of toothpaste after delegating the task to Paul and Daryl, with oversight by Olivia.   
  
“I’m counting that as part of yours,” Paul says, hopping up in the truck to start handing down boxes.

“The toothpaste? That was payment for swipin our damn keys,” Daryl says, grabbing the crate Paul offers him. Together they stack them on the pavement outside of Olivia’s garage, and she pulls them away one at a time to go through them, making a list so they can haggle over who gets what more easily.

It takes the rest of the day and part of the evening to hash everything out and to reload the boxes on the truck. In the end, Paul only takes a fourth, his eyes roaming over the bare shelves in the garage before they start negotiations.   
  
“Is this all you have?” he asks.   
  
“Pretty much.”

And under normal circumstances, Daryl would’ve argued when Paul said he’d cut back on his take. But they really are desperate, too desperate to say shit like, “nah, we said half.” Too desperate to have a back and forth that would ultimately end in the same result if Paul’s still half the Paul he used to know. 

It’s nearly midnight when he hands Paul the keys and tells him to drive safe, already regretting the fact that they’re saying good-bye so soon.   
  
And it’s not like he’s still in love with his first childhood boyfriend, if their puppy love back then had even been real legitimate love, if they’d actually technically been boyfriends. They hadn’t asked each other to go steady like some of their schoolmates. And it wasn’t like they could hold hands walking down the halls.

Daryl thinks of Aaron and Eric and the first time they’d kissed in front of everyone, too emotional to care what it might mean to the group of new people. Daryl had watched with something that felt a lot like admiration. Even in his adult life on the rare occasions that he’d dated, he had never been so bold. 

* * *

_They didn’t hold hands as often as either of them would have liked. Daryl knew that because Paul whispered it to him once in an empty hallway at the home while they hugged longer than they should have. Paul said a lot of things to him when they stole moments together, things like “I wish we could do this more,” things like “your hair smells like cheap shampoo.”_

_Daryl responded with things like “me too,” things like “so does yours, you idiot.”_

_Neither of them said the thing they really wanted to say, ‘I want to kiss you.’_

_Whatever their relationship was, they’d been at it for weeks since that first time they held hands on the bus, which was a place they hadn’t held hands since, because fate had yet to give them the perfect storm of circumstances again._

_Sometimes Daryl could still see the way Paul looked at him that day. He thought about how easy it would have been to lean his head against the seat back too, to turn his face toward Paul’s and see if Paul’s mouth was as soft as he thought it might be. But he never would have actually done it and he knew that too. That didn’t stop the idea from haunting him, nor did it stop him from begging God or the universe or whoever to give him another shot. To give Paul a shot anyway, because Daryl knew out of the two of them who would be the one to take it._

_God or the universe or whoever, it seemed, was listening._

_Their first kiss happened by chance and by way of a shared can of vending machine Coca-Cola at lunch. Usually they were forced to drink milk (white for Paul, chocolate for Daryl) with their free lunch plans. Some of the other kids, the ones who weren’t orphans or the children of deadbeat sacks of shit, could afford to grab sodas from the vending machines to eat with their square slices of pizza._

_On that particular day, Paul spotted a shiny quarter on the sidewalk outside the school. There was very little debate over what to do with it. Saving it would have been silly. If he’d even managed to hide a change jar from the other boys at the home, he might’ve had a whole dollar at the end of the year._

_It was either a Coke or a small bag of chips. Daryl hadn’t tried to influence him when he walked out of the cafeteria into the holding area where the machines were. He just watched his food for him, waiting quietly while he nibbled on a tater tot._

_“We’re sharing this for dessert,” Paul said, the red can scraping across the table between them. Had it been Daryl’s drink, he might have already opened it. But Paul was willing to wait, to savor it. They ate their fish sticks, even sucked down their free milk._

_The pop-pop-fizz of the can opening felt like music. It was the most intimate they’d ever been with each other publicly, quietly passing the can back and forth in the cafeteria, their fingers sometimes brushing on the aluminum. Daryl couldn’t help feeling a bit dizzy when he thought about the fact that his lips were touching something Paul’s lips had touched too._

_Over and over. Back and forth._

_They both took small sips and let the bubbles linger on their tongues. Even though it often felt like a cage, they weren’t completely deprived of luxuries at the group home. Sometimes people donated fun things like video tapes or even day-old donuts. But soda was rare. Daryl hadn’t had one since before his dad got in trouble._

_When the can was empty, Paul tipped it up, shaking every last drop out onto his tongue._

_“Thanks,” Daryl said, “for letting me have some too.”_

_“Next one’s on you,” Paul said, and they quietly got up and got rid of their trays._

_By the middle of Daryl’s next class period, a carton of milk and half a can of Coke had run its course. He tried to avoid going, bouncing in his seat to the point that Mrs. Wright walked right up the aisle during her lecture and set the bathroom pass on his desk, still droning on about mitochondria while he slipped out into the hall and hauled ass to the bathroom._

_He was midway through taking care of business when Paul walked in, a hall pass dangling from his wrist. He laughed quietly and took the urinal farthest away. Daryl waited nervously, looking up at the water-stained ceiling tiles while he finished up._

_They were so rarely alone, and even more rarely alone in a situation where it was unlikely they would get interrupted. Daryl didn’t look at him until he heard a zipper, chewing on his lip when he met his eyes. He knew they would do **something**. If they happened to catch a second by themselves, they always did something. Sometimes they would just clasp hands and look at each other while their hearts raced away in their chests. Sometimes they would hug, hold each other a beat too long until the sound of approaching footsteps split them apart too soon._

_Daryl’s stomach churned, and he occupied himself with walking to the sink and washing his hands under the icy water. Paul took the sink beside him, doing the same. Their eyes met in the mirror._

_“Damn Coke went right through me,” Daryl murmured, feeling like an idiot as soon as he said it because wow, how romantic was that actually?_

_He and Paul both dried their hands on their jeans, streaking wet across donated denim. Paul held a hand out to him, and Daryl took it, wondering if his felt as cold and clammy as the other boy’s. They stared at each other, their reflections in the mirror above the sink doing the same._

_Daryl swore he could hear his own blood circulating. Blue-green eyes bored into him. Paul took a deep breath and swallowed._

_“I should get back to class,” Daryl finally said, when the intensity of Paul’s stare began to overwhelm him. “Fore they come lookin.”_

_He started to pull away, letting his hand slip slowly out of Paul’s. But Paul latched on before his fingers were free, tugging Daryl backwards. Daryl stumbled once, twice and caught himself against the sinks. He was still recovering his balance when he felt dull pressure against his lips. He pushed Paul away almost instantly, too off-balance and confused to realize that what was happening was the thing he’d spent weeks borderline praying for._

_“God, I’m sorry,” Paul said immediately. “I thought you-”_

_“I did,” Daryl blurted quickly. And he wanted to smash his own face into the mirror beside them. Their first kiss and he’d messed the whole thing up. “I just, it was really fast. Not like...” He waved his hand between the two of them. “This wasn’t fast, just the... Shit, Paul. I do want…” He scratched at the back of his neck, his throat tightening. All he could think about was that he was forever going to remember his first kiss as this. An awkward embarrassing fumble in a boys’ bathroom._

_But Paul didn’t let it end there. He nodded, somehow understanding the scramble of words coming out of Daryl’s mouth. He stepped forward and put his hands on Daryl’s arms right above the elbows and went back up on his tip-toes. This time Daryl didn’t push him away. Even when his heart sped so fast he thought he might pass out on the dirty bathroom floor._

_It wasn’t a great kiss or even a good kiss. Daryl had no clue how to kiss and probably Paul didn’t either since he’d said more than one time that he’d never liked anyone before Daryl. It was awkward and he pressed back against Paul so hard his own teeth dug into the insides of his lips. It wasn’t a real kiss either, not like the way some of the other kids in their school would try to force-feed each other their tongues in dark corners. It was simple and terrible, but Daryl still felt the tingle of it spread down his whole being into the tips of his toes._

_And three months and two similar kisses later, when he was told he would be released back into his father’s care within the week, it was the thing that popped into his head._

* * *

 

“Are you crazy?” Paul asks, slipping the keys into his pants pocket before adjusting the roll on one of his sleeves. The duster jacket sits abandoned somewhere in the bed of the truck, along with the hat and gloves.

“No more’n usual.”

“I’m not driving all the way back to Hilltop in the middle of the night, Daryl. That’s suicide.”

Oh.

It made perfect sense of course. Daryl wouldn’t have done it either if he could avoid it, and he’s not sure why on Earth he thought Paul would, because Daryl would deserve it maybe? He meets Paul’s eyes. He can’t even see their color properly in the dark but they’re still as dazzling as they ever were.

“Right. Makes sense.” Daryl swallows and looks away.

Paul goes quiet, taking a second to test the lock on the back of the truck like it might not have properly closed even though they both know it did.

“I still can’t believe it’s really you,” Paul says. “I got over it after a while, moved on and dated other guys. But there was a long time there where I wanted to ask you if you missed me as much as I missed you.”

The thought of Paul with other guys makes something in Daryl twinge, but he knows that’s stupid. He’s dated other guys too. Kissed other guys. Done more than kiss even, though it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to go that far. Up until he passed the line into adulthood, he’d convinced himself that somehow he and Paul would be reunited and could move into that territory together.

“I did miss you,” Daryl says. “Every day for a long time. Then off and on for even longer.”

He wants to say more, to say the thing that haunted him back in his teen years and sometimes randomly since, especially on the days he thinks might die. But he can’t find the words, or he can but they’re sitting on his tongue like a bird with broken wings, unable to take flight.  

“Got an extra bed,” Daryl says instead. “C’mon.”

Paul follows him home, but they don’t go to their corners and go to bed right away. They’re both bone tired, but they also haven’t eaten anything, too focused on getting the rationing done to stop. They’re two steps in the front door when Daryl’s stomach growls and Paul’s answers back in kind. Even Daryl has to laugh at that, walking into the kitchen of the place that has always been too nice for his comfort. There’s leftover stew in the fridge, and he heats it in the microwave while Paul walks around, running his hands over everything.   
  
He turns the water on, and Daryl knows what’s coming the second he sees the steam rising out of the sink.

“Holy shit.” Paul darts his hand under it, jabbing into the searing spray and pulling it back. “I’ve got to take a shower before I leave. No, a bath. No both, I have to take both before I leave.”

Daryl snorts, stirring the container of stew before throwing it back in the microwave.

They eat on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. Somewhere between the eighth and ninth bite, Daryl finds something that feels like courage. Granted that could also be courage of the liquid variety, because Paul had seen the bottle of whiskey sitting on his countertop and Daryl couldn’t refuse him when he’d asked if they could have a drink.

“I’m sorry,” Daryl finally blurts out, feeling the knot in his stomach untwist the second the words are out.

“What for?” Paul asks, and his stomach knots up all over again.

* * *

_The social worker smiled at Daryl from the across the table, and he wanted to throw something at her face. Realistically, he knew that she didn’t know what she was doing to him, that she was tossing him back to the wolves, that she was taking him away from Paul._

_Realistically, he knew he could have stopped the whole thing from happening. Four words, four words would have meant staying at the group home indefinitely. With Paul. Indefinitely._

_My dad hits me._

_He could hear them in his head, clear as day, almost like he’d already spoken them. The social worker went on about how they would be contacting his old school and getting everything in order, how he’d go back to class with all his old friends on Monday. Yeah, like Daryl fucking had friends._

_Just Paul._

_Four words and he could stay with Paul._

_Four words and he’d never see his brother again._

_He knew Merle. He’d never do a group home like this and this one was at capacity anyway. He’d take off either before or after. He’d leave, and Daryl wouldn’t know where to look for him years down the road when he finally aged out. And they’d probably never see each other again._

_Four words and a monumental choice. Paul or Merle._

_He thought about the woods too, about the fact that Atlanta was all buildings and concrete and no trees. He thought about his Uncle Jess teaching him to use a crossbow in his backyard, his Aunt Wanda and her apple pies. He thought about all the fights he’d gotten in with other boys, all the times he’d been spit on or tripped in the dining hall._

_Paul made life in Atlanta bearable, but Daryl still hated it._

_Four fucking words._

_Daryl never said them. But out of all the things Daryl never said in his life, they weren’t the things he regretted most._

_He never told Paul he was going home. As the days went by, he felt the words rise up so many times, but every time he looked at him, every time they brushed knees under a table or Paul gently kicked him or intentionally fouled him in basketball—every time, they got pushed back down._

_When the social worker came for him on Saturday morning, Paul was still asleep. Daryl never even said good-bye._

_And he could’ve written or called. But he knew that letters were dangerous because they could be read by other eyes. And the thought of hearing Paul’s voice again after what he’d done to him made Daryl feel sick. Over time, he convinced himself Paul wouldn’t want to hear from him anyway. Even as something deeper in him told him that Paul would forgive him in a heartbeat because that was the kind of boy Paul was._

_Every time they took a school field trip to Atlanta, Daryl kept his eyes open. He prayed again to God or the universe or whatever, but they didn’t answer him again._

_Maybe they never had to begin with._

* * *

Daryl stirs the last few bites of his stew. He knows what happened was years ago when they were both kids, but it’s still one of the tiny shards of guilt that he carries around always.

“I knew I was leaving all that week,” Daryl says. “I couldn’t tell you. You deserved better than me anyhow though. I hope you found-”

“Daryl, we were  _kids_.”

“Shitty kids. Me anyway. You weren’t.”

“Even adults are bad at good-byes, Daryl,” Paul says. “I won’t lie to you and say that when I found out you were gone, it wasn’t hard. Especially since I couldn’t be upset the way I needed to be. The boys would’ve pounced.”

“I didn’t even call.”

“You didn’t,” Paul says. “But what would it have changed if you’d told me?”

“Could’ve said good-bye at least.” Daryl stirs the stew again and forces the last two bites down. He remembers how much he’d fantasized about one last kiss, about reunions, about just sitting in the grass holding hands like all the other couples at their school could.

“I missed you like hell,” Daryl says, putting the bowl down on the coffee table. “I coulda stayed, coulda stopped them from takin me. I just, it was home or you, Merle or you. I shoulda chose you.”

“Daryl, I was upset then, not even with you, just with not having you in my life anymore, but I forgave you a long time ago,” Paul says. “You’re talking about the choice between your first crush and your entire life and family. It’s not hard to see why you chose what you chose. I don’t blame you.”

“You’d’ve made a better family, even if we stopped whatever it is we were doin.”

“Maybe,” Paul says. “But you couldn’t have known that. I could have broken your heart too, or we could have drifted apart. There wasn’t a choice you could have made then that would have left you without a million what ifs. You said you’re sorry. I’m saying I forgive you, that I did ages ago. I’m not mad. In fact, I’m thrilled you’re still alive and seem to have a real life with people who care about you.”

Daryl looks over at him, and he doesn’t even have to search him for sincerity. It’s all over his face. Daryl relaxes as much as he can. He lets the weight he’s carried around for decades start to slough off, and he knows it’ll be a while before it’s all gone and that he’ll probably have to do something stupid like save Paul’s life to really feel like things are even.

But it’s a start.

“You got that at Hilltop? People who care?” Daryl asks.

Paul frowns and puts his empty bowl down.

“They respect me.” The words feel carefully chosen. Too careful.

“That ain’t an answer.”

“We have to play the best we can with the hands we’re dealt,” Paul says, and Daryl can already feel the word 'stay' forming on his tongue. And he’s not stupid or naive or full of some kind of childlike lovey-dovey optimism. It’s not like they’re gonna kick up something just because they kissed when they were teenagers. He’s not even sure he’d want to, that Paul is the same Paul after years of growing up. Hell, Daryl’s not even the same Daryl anymore and that’s just counting recent changes.

Though he’s always felt like the Daryl he’s become in the new world is the Daryl he imagined he might have become if he’d stayed in Atlanta.

Somewhere in the time Daryl spends thinking, Paul gets up and goes to take a shower. Daryl waits, busying himself with carrying their used dishes to the kitchen. He even washes them and sets them in the drain to dry. He’s leaning against the counter by the sink when Paul comes in, looking the same as he did earlier save the wet hair hanging around his face and seeping moisture into his shirt.

Daryl doesn’t hesitate.

“How many walkers have you killed?” Daryl asks quietly.

“What?”

“How m-”

“Hundreds, I’d imagine. I guess it could be less, but it feels like hundreds.”

“How many people?”

“More than I would have liked,” Paul says.  

“Why?”

Paul sighs and leans back on the kitchen island, just a couple feet of tile separating their feet. 

“Because you can’t back away from hard choices anymore, and sometimes all options are terrible.”

“You can stay here,” Daryl says, like he’s satisfied with those answers, like the questions actually matter when he’s already offered Paul precious resources and co-ownership of a truck and a warm bed and a hot shower. Like he didn’t already inherently trust him because despite the fact that they’re both different people, he couldn’t imagine the kid he’d once known turning out to be anything but good.

Or as good as anyone can be anymore.

“I  _am_  staying here,” Paul says. “Unless you changed your mind.”

“Meant you could stay longer than one night. We’re family here. You’d fit. Better than me even.”

“I see.” Paul goes quiet, and the silence is uncomfortable for a change. Daryl squirms subtly when he feels it. “Daryl...”

“Ain’t askin you to marry me or nothing, shit. Just sayin you’d probably find a lot more than ‘respect’ here.”

Paul nods and fiddles with his sleeves again. It occurs to Daryl that he should’ve offered him some clean clothes before his shower, but it’s too late now.

“Well?” Daryl asks. Paul meets his eyes, and facing the brightness of them head-on makes something in Daryl’s stomach flutter nervously. He pushes it away, shaking it off as some latent thing from a long time ago. Paul sighs softly.

“I’ll think about it.”

Daryl jerks his head down, accepting the answer for what it is and knowing he can't ask any more of him than that. They leave the kitchen together, splitting at the bottom of the stairs, Daryl pointing at the door to the spare room before heading up.

Halfway to the top, he pauses with his hand on the railing and looks back over his shoulder.   
  
He thinks he catches a glimpse of seafoam eyes looking back at him before they disappear into the darkness. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, it really did need a part 2.

It takes Daryl a long time to realize that he’s doing it. It starts small at first, little glances at empty cases in picked-over convenience stores, opening the occasional cooler and being disappointed even when there’s stuff inside like water or a six pack of old beer.

It progresses from there. An extra circle around a grocery store, his eyes following the signs labeling the aisles until his flashlight falls on the word “soda.” A violent altercation between himself and a vending machine, his crowbar prying and prying until he can see what’s inside. Something, but not what he wanted.

He takes the orange soda back to Denise. It turns out Tara did really like them after all.

* * *

_Over morning coffee, Paul turned down the offer to stay in Alexandria._

“ _I won’t say it’s not tempting, but they need me there,” Paul said, leaning on the kitchen island. “I’m not sure they could make it without me.”_

_Daryl watched him talk, taking a sip and looking at him through the steam rising from the pitch black lake in his cup. He thought about bargaining, about throwing out different offers that involved Paul checking on them weekly to make sure they were getting on okay. They could take them supply drops. There were ways he could still stay without abandoning them._

“ _I get it,” Daryl said instead. And truthfully, he did. It didn't feel like it, but it hadn’t been that long since Merle wanted to rob the quarry camp. That had twisted at Daryl’s insides even though he didn’t care about everyone there like family yet. That Paul was unwilling to leave his camp without a scout and runner was admirable. If anything, it meant Daryl had been right about wanting to invite him in, even if he wouldn’t stay._

“ _I was hoping you would come with me though. Today.”_

 _Daryl pulled his cup away from his face and looked at him, searching him for familiar signs like a slight glint in_ _his_  e _yes or a_ _small_ _twist to his lips—_ _s_ _igns that Paul was joking. Because surely he had to be. If he wouldn’t leave Hilltop, then why the hell would he expect Daryl to leave Alexandria?_

“ _Don’t look at me like that. I want to establish some kind of trade route between here and Hilltop. I need a liaison. Someone to come meet with our leader.”_

“ _Ain’t exactly liaison material.”_

“ _He’s not exactly leader material,” Paul said. “I might be betting on you intimidating him a little.”_

_Daryl grunted._

_In the end, he agreed under the stipulation that he’d do it this one time and that they’d figure out who fit better in that spot. Daryl already had thoughts. Maggie or maybe even Aaron. But not him._

_And maybe he only ever agreed in the first place for the promise of a long day spent catching up._

* * *

Aaron is far more indulgent of Daryl’s new hobby than he deserves. It had taken a while for him to notice Daryl’s new obsession too, but he eventually figures it out, even asks what Daryl’s looking for.

“Nothin,” Daryl says. It’s a lie, but saying it out loud means admitting something that runs a lot deeper than a simple hunt for a single item. It’s always jarring when you find out that the things you felt in the past aren’t as dead and buried as you thought they were.

“If you’d just tell me, I could help you,” Aaron says, already shoving his crowbar into the vending machine next to Daryl’s. It’s a Pepsi machine, but Daryl doesn’t say anything about him prying it open. Some of the labels next to the buttons say there might be water inside. Even if it’s fresh and running back home, they can still always use it. And soda is good for quick calories when there’s no other option.

They both succeed in forcing their machines open at almost the same time. Daryl’s is empty save a single can of grape Fanta. Aaron manages a few cans of Mountain Dew and an actual Pepsi. Daryl laughs quietly at that, even goes so far to imagine himself asking the “is Pepsi okay?” question.

But it’s not okay. Even if Paul would accept it or anything else easily, it’s just not.

* * *

_Paul offered Daryl his couch the first night at Hilltop, and spending time there was one of the only good things about his stay. It turned out he wasn’t lying about their leader. He was smarmy and Daryl got the distinct impression that if he yanked up his shirt, he’d find a belly yellower than a damn canary._

_But Gregory finally backed down and agreed that maybe there were things they could do for one another when he saw the haul in the back of the delivery truck. Even a quarter of it was more than they’d apparently seen in a while._

“ _I don’t see why we can’t have some more joint runs if they’re this fruitful,” Gregory said, already liberating a bottle of whiskey from a milk crate. “I suppose you two could use our new truck here once a week or so.”_

“ _Your truck?” Daryl asked, the words rattling in his throat._

“ _The truck actually rightfully belongs to Alexandria,” Paul said, stepping in quickly. His eyes pleaded with Daryl and he knew he was silently begging him not to sock Gregory in the jaw, which Daryl had to admit was pretty damn tempting. “They found it and were gracious enough to let me drive it here with the supplies.”_

“ _Yes, but agreements such as these demand shows of good faith, Jesus. This would be a way to show our community that Alexandria is serious about a, uh, mutually beneficial partnership.”_

_The look Paul gave him was the only thing that kept Daryl from saying ‘how bout we mutually benefit from my foot up your ass?’ Daryl grunted instead, figuring the prick could take that however he liked. He and Paul would keep doing whatever they wanted with the damn truck._

_Apparently Daryl’s response had been good enough for Paul too. He thanked him later that evening with a snack cupcake pulled from a drawer. It was a destroyed mess that someone had probably sat on at some point. Chocolate crumbs and sugary white filling blended together and stuck to the plastic. But they split it anyway, fingers brushing casually while they scooped it off the wrapper and sucked it into their mouths._

_After, they played catch up, filling each other in on the details of their lives. Daryl told Paul a lot of stuff he probably already assumed, and for some reason he found it easier to share things he might have otherwise kept quiet._

_From the home, he’d gone back to his father and things were as bad as ever. Merle had been absent more than he’d been present, though he didn’t miss school again until he properly dropped out. There’d been years slumming around with Merle after reaching adulthood, sharing a filthy rented trailer and drifting aimlessly. He told Paul what most people didn’t know and what other people could only guess—that he’d secretly wished that whole time that he could be someone better. Then the outbreak had come. He’d watched his daddy get torn apart by hungry hands, neither him nor Merle able or willing to lift a finger to stop it. His new family had come shortly after. Daryl didn’t spare a detail about them either. He listed every one who mattered all the way back to the quarry, told Paul about Sophia and Dale and Andrea and Beth._

_The conversation was an organic exchange more than it was an even trade. In between Daryl’s tales, Paul slipped in his own history. He’d moved on from the home as early as possible, applying for emancipation and moving in with a rag-tag misfit family. They’d all shared a cheap apartment and sparred with each other in the living room. Some of his roommates had moved on naturally before the world died. They’d gotten married or left the city or found careers that meant their own places where everyone didn’t exist on top of one another._

_When the virus had arrived in Atlanta, Paul and a woman named Tori had just started a new roommate search. Their first prospect had been infected, dying on their worn out sofa before living again. He and Tori had killed her with some terrifying trial and error. After that, they’d both decided to get out of the city. That simple quest to escape the limits of Atlanta had shown Paul how indiscriminately the new world destroyed things—people, the love between them. Tori had died horrifically and Paul had made it a point not to get too close to anyone else, though he still had his own list of names. People he felt he’d failed to protect or grown to care for despite his efforts. Gina and Jody and LaVette and—he said this one with a little more reverence than the others—Christopher._

_By the time Daryl curled up on the couch in Paul’s trailer that night, he felt like they knew each other again._

* * *

Daryl strikes gold where he isn’t panning for it. The Hilltop’s been looking for more building supplies, so when he and Aaron pass a hardware store, Daryl pulls the truck up in front of a display of plants so long-dead that he’s not even sure what they were meant to be.

If he can find some stuff inside, they might be able to trade it for some fresh fruit, or if Maggie sets her jaw just right, maybe one of those cows Daryl’s had his eyes on.

The machine out front says “RC Cola” and he doesn’t even spare it a glance, walking right by it to tap on the glass with his knuckles before putting both hands up to block the glare so he can look inside. The interior of the store is picked over, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s been there since they locked the doors.

He might actually get lucky after all.

While they wait to see if anything comes stumbling out of the darkness of the store, Aaron pries open the soda machine anyway.

“Not much,” he says, holding up a couple cans to Daryl. Daryl gives his head a little shake, and Aaron shrugs before pulling one shoulder strap off his arm and bringing his pack around to shove them inside.

"We're gonna need a dentist in Alexandria if we keep bringing these home," Aaron says. 

"You mean Eric is." Daryl taps the glass again. 

"Appetite like a hummingbird." 

Daryl peers into the store one more time and gently breaks the glass, reaching inside to twist the lock so he can tug the door open properly. Eyes scanning every direction, he walks in cautiously, boots crunching through the broken glass. He focuses on his flashlight more than his bow, though it’s up and at the ready too. He doesn't take chances anymore if he can help it, not when other people are depending on him. 

More crunching as Aaron follows him over the threshold. Then something groans, the sound rattling wetly from somewhere behind the register. Daryl shifts the flashlight to his mouth, raising one hand and signaling for Aaron to go to the right while he stalks to the left. Two people from two directions can confuse a walker enough for someone to sink a knife in or get a shot off.

Both of them crouch, legs bending and twisting around one another while they approach slowly to peer over the sides of the counter. It turns out none of their stealth and caution is all that necessary though. 

“Jesus,” Aaron says, looking away.

“Nah, I know Jesus,” Daryl says. “Looks a hell of a lot better than this guy.”

The walker’s ancient, several parts of it rotted away entirely, other parts of it fused to the floor mat. Daryl fires off a pity shot from the bow, leaning over the register to retrieve it when a flash of red catches his eye. His eyes fall on it, sitting there on a shelf under the counter next to an empty money bag and a roll of brown paper towels. 

“Holy fuck!”

Aaron’s there in an instant, leaning over beside him with his knife at the ready. He goes slack when he sees Daryl’s hand wraps around the glass bottle, pulling it up over the counter.

“So it was that all along,” Aaron says. “You could have told me, you know?”

“Wasn’t a big deal.” But Daryl’s holding the bottle up like there should be a heavenly light shining on it with a damn choir of angels singing in the background.

* * *

_It didn’t take long for the liaison job to fall to Maggie. The second they’d found out Hilltop had an obstetrician, she’d asked Daryl to take her and Glenn along on his next trip. Denise did her best, but the promise of an ultrasound and someone who actually specialized in what she needed was too good of an offer to pass up._

_The people there took to her and the hope she carried inside of her almost instantly, and Gregory wasn’t stupid enough to miss the writing on the wall. He seized the opportunity to appoint her as an “emissary,” making sure he satisfied his people’s affection for her while keeping her apart from them at the same time._

_Fucking asshole._

_Daryl accompanied her and Glenn on every meeting though. He usually had goods to help deliver anyway. Plus he and Paul had started a running tab for their regular poker games played at either community. They would bet things they knew they had back at home, and they would be expected to deliver._

_This time in particular, Daryl left Maggie and Gregory to haggle over seed packets while he walked a small bottle of bourbon over to Paul’s trailer. He knocked and curled his fingers around the glass, already mourning the loss._

“ _For me? You shouldn’t have,” Paul said, leaning casually against the door frame in a way that made one side of his shirt creep up, exposing pale skin and the top of his hipbone. Daryl cleared his throat and looked him in the eyes._

“ _Gonna win it back,” Daryl said, though even he had to admit he didn’t sound confident at all. Paul had already figured out how to read him. Or maybe he’d always known how to do that. Either way, unless Daryl lucked out, he was screwed, because Paul could call his bluff every time._

“ _I guess you could try,” Paul said, stepping out of the doorway so Daryl could step inside. “Or we could get a couple of glasses out and enjoy the fruits of me kicking your ass.”_

_Daryl handed over the bottle, happily accepting the coffee mug Paul poured him._

“ _To old friends,” Paul said, holding up a pink tumbler, and Daryl was filled with the overwhelming desire to say something witty, to see Paul’s face crack open in a smile that lit up his entire face from top to bottom._

_God, he wanted Paul to **like**  him, like Daryl hadn't already proven himself to him a long time ago._

“ _To still not likin Tina Morales,” Daryl said. And there it was. Paul’s head tilted back a little, his hair following it, rippling backwards to expose his neck and Adam’s apple. A single note of laughter escaped his lips, and then he was back upright, eyes shining, pearly white smile gleaming at Daryl and Daryl alone._

_In that single instant, everything in Daryl’s body went haywire, his insides a nest of bees, excited and buzzing. And all he could think about was how they might look reflected in a bathroom mirror. He downed his drink._

* * *

They lose the delivery truck and all the lumber and tools. It’s an accident that starts with running into a herd on their way home. They’re forced to back up and reroute, and the new plan Aaron follows on the map takes them over an old wooden bridge. Daryl ignores the “do not enter” signs and decides to chance it because otherwise they’ll still be out after sunset.

He and Aaron whoop when they make it across, Daryl hitting the brakes and killing the engine so they can move the second sign out of their way. The things are weighted with concrete, and it’s a two-man job to scoot them to the side of the road.

They’ve got the thing half onto the shoulder when the bridge groans ominously. A sprint back to the truck nets them their packs and weapons, Daryl groping for the precious bottle of Coke in the cup holder and closing his fingers around it before the wood cracks and splinters, the back half of the truck falling when the bridge give way.

There’s a brief second where it hangs over the edge, and Daryl thinks maybe it’ll stick. They can head back home and come back for it later when they figure out how to tow it out.

But then there’s more cracking, the earth shifting until the whole thing goes plummeting over the side. He and Aaron watch it bob along, the river carrying it downstream before it finally disappears under the current.

“Well, fuck.”

“Basically.”

They’re on foot after that, the bottle of Coke and the prospect of his meeting tomorrow night the only things keeping Daryl’s mood from going completely sour. But it’s still a shitty day. His feet and his back are nothing but pain by the time they finally spot a cabin. It’s shitty and reminds Daryl a little too much of home and of Beth and her moonshine, but it’s somewhere to rest while the sky darkens.

* * *

_Poker games slowly turned into dinner. Paul teasingly claimed he got tired of winning, but every now and then he still dealt them a game so Daryl doubted that was true. It started with Paul asking him if he was hungry one night before making some weird concoction of pasta, canned goods, fresh onion and dried spices that he referred to as “his specialty.”_

_Daryl learned later on that every dish was Paul’s specialty. But he loved trying them all, loved Paul grabbing this and that or asking Daryl to hand him salt or rosemary or the can of olives from the pantry. Daryl soaked it all in even while he tried to ignore the lightning that seemed to flash between their fingertips when they touched around a mason jar of dried basil from the garden._

_Back in Alexandria, Daryl’s meals were less experimental. What he lacked for in creativity, he made up for in perfection, because he could prepare a simple cut of just about any meat with chef-like precision. He had his own blend of herbs and spices, and he would serve up things like cooked rabbit with pan-seared squash kabobs or even a nice squirrel stew._

_They ate their meals with a hunger that never quite seemed satisfied until long after the plates had been cleared away, until they’d spent hours talking or existing comfortably in silence, breathing in each others’ company. They never stopped their meetings until their eyes drooped and their contagious yawns started to flow endlessly back and forth across the table._

“ _This is gettin ridiculous,” Daryl would say, after watching Paul yawn for the fourth time, his entire body stretching out, weariness spreading into his limbs until it overtook his whole being, arms and legs extending while his jaw gaped open. And goddamn it if watching Paul's back arch, his shirt clinging to his rib cage, didn’t make Daryl’s breath catch in his throat and then again in his lungs._

“ _I guess I should sleep,” Paul would say back, though he always said it reluctantly, like he would be content to keep existing together until they both slumped over the table. Daryl would be lying if he didn’t admit that thought had crossed his mind more than once. Eventually he stopped prompting their stumble to different beds. Eventually they started doing just that._

_And one morning, Daryl woke up across the table from Paul to find their fingers touching right at their very tips, his heart fluttering wildly at those minute points of contact while he watched Paul breathe peacefully, drooling on his own sleeve._

_It was a long time before Daryl moved his hand._

* * *

Daryl and Aaron stroll up to the gates two days later, exhausted to the core after hours upon hours of walking and trying cars that refused to crank and walking some damn more. Daryl’s tense and frowning when he steps inside, knowing that he missed his weekly meeting with Paul yesterday and will have to wait another week to deliver the one good thing that came out of the run. Part of him wants to hop in a car and do something reckless, but he’s swaying on his feet, his eyelids drooping as soon as his brain knows he’s safe.

Blinking slowly, he watches Eric sprint up and engulf Aaron in a hug. Hands go to each others’ cheeks and he sees Eric’s eyes silently begging his partner, ‘please always come home to me’ while Aaron’s answer in kind, ‘I will or I’ll goddamn die trying.’ Daryl’s chest tightens painfully before he yanks his eyes away from the display.

Funny how he’s never realized he wanted someone to be there waiting for him until recently.

Except someone is there waiting for him, it seems.

“There’s a stray at your house,” Maggie says, squeezing him tightly. “Came yesterday to see me, though I think we both know he really came to see you. Refused to leave when you weren’t back yet. He stayed with us last night but he’s spent all morning pacing a hole in your porch.”  

And Daryl feels like an idiot. He’d been so grumpy thinking he wouldn’t see Paul for another week because he what? Expected him to just leave? Knowing Daryl was late coming back from a run?

Damn, sometimes Daryl is a fucking moron.

Daryl doesn’t know what he mutters at Maggie before he books it, walking briskly in the direction of his home. He sees Paul sitting on his front steps a second before Paul sees him, shooting upright immediately at the sight of him. Daryl doesn’t stop walking as fast as he physically can until they’re toe to toe. And he only stops then because he doesn’t know what else to do. Does he hug him? Pat him on one arm and say “hi”? Put his hands on his cheeks and tell him everything he feels through eye contact alone? 

Paul answers that question for him, leather-clad arms snaking around Daryl’s waist, pulling them chest to chest. Paul leans forward and rests his forehead on Daryl’s shoulder, exhaling so that Daryl feels the warmth of it even through his shirt. A small part of Daryl’s brain listens for boots on linoleum, ready to pull away in an instant. But he doesn’t have to pull away anymore. They could stay like this for hours, days even, and no one would stop them.

“It’s your turn technically, but I think I’ll make lunch,” Paul says, pulling away slowly.

“Think I’ll let you.” Daryl finally slips out of his arms, walking up to the front door to let them both inside. “Dessert’s on me though.”

Paul moves to the kitchen when the door shuts behind them, or at least that’s what Daryl thinks he does. He makes it about two steps to the couch, setting his pack and crossbow down on the coffee table before he settles onto the cushions. He’s out in seconds, only waking up when Paul nudges his shoulder.

“Come eat something and then you can rest some more.”

Daryl moves sluggishly to the kitchen, sliding into a chair and shoveling food into his mouth robotically. He doesn’t ask what’s in Paul’s dish like he usually does. Truthfully, he’s not even sure he tastes it, which is a pity because as weird as they are, Paul’s concoctions are usually at least interesting to experience, if not wildly delicious.

Paul has him halfway up the stairs, the dish empty and resting in the bottom of the sink, before Daryl thinks about the glass bottle securely wrapped up in his pack.

“No stop,” Daryl slurs, nearly tripping up the staircase. “I have somethin.”

“What?”

“For you.”

“It can wait.” Paul nudges him a bit with a hand on the small of his back. “I’ll still be here.”

“Stayin,” Daryl says, more to help his overtired brain process the words than anything. He continues up the stairs. Even half asleep, the gentle pressure of Paul’s touch feels like home.

“Yes. Honestly I didn’t sleep much last night, so I’ll probably rest some too.”

“Can stay here.” Daryl falls on his bed, untying his shoes, flinging one wildly across the room before Paul grabs his hands and takes the other off for him, dropping it onto the floor.

“I…kind of planned on it.”  

“Mhm.” Daryl can’t bring himself to elaborate. He falls back onto the pillows instead.

“I’ll see you soon,” Paul says, though it’s not until hours later, when Daryl wakes to his room glowing orange with fading light of dusk, that he finally registers the parting words.

He finds Paul in the kitchen, heating up the leftovers of whatever he made for lunch. Daryl inhales and catches chili and cumin and something else that he registers as “curry” when he sees the bottle still sitting on the counter next to the stove.

He didn’t even know he had that one. But the spice rack had been in the house when he moved in, sitting alone in one corner of the kitchen next to salt and pepper grinders monogrammed with the letter “L.” It had all felt too fancy for him, just like the house itself, but he’d used them just the same.

He gives Paul a rough “hey,” watching him stir the container before putting it back in the microwave.

“Perfect timing.” The buttons beep as Paul’s fingers skirt across them. Daryl thinks about fingertips pressed against his and two much smaller hands clasped together over worn denim. He takes a quick turn out into the living room and retrieves his backpack, setting it next to his chair in the kitchen. He wishes he’d been awake enough to sneak the Coke into the fridge somehow, even thinks about getting cups of ice, but the prospect of their hands touching when they pass it between them is a thought that he can’t preemptively ruin.

And maybe it’s silly, his obsession with recreating this one moment, but he  _needs_  to. Quietly, he takes a seat and waits, his stomach twisting nervously because for all his attempts to make this happen, he’s still not sure what it’ll mean. He knows what it means for him, that it’s a signal Paul will receive loud and clear. It’s just whether or not he answers that signal that has Daryl tracing the woodgrain below his fingers until Paul joins him.

Whatever Paul made, he can actually taste it now that he’s awake. The food is a sort of mustard yellow and it smells like heaven. It takes Daryl a few bites to get used to the newness of it, but he decides he loves the flavors, that next time he cooks for Paul, he’ll have to do some experimenting with the spices he has beyond the combinations he already knew he liked.

When they both finish, Daryl clears the dishes, running a little water in them and leaving them for later. And fuck if his hands don’t shake the whole time, the silverware rattling in the plates while he sets them down in the stainless steel basin.

Turning back toward the table, he finds Paul watching him quietly. Nerves fluttering, Daryl crosses the room and sits back down, reaching for the pack. And he swears King Midas himself reached inside of him and touched every organ he has. It's a wonder his chair doesn't sink down into the hardwood. 

His fingers skirt around rope and an empty plastic bag that held jerky he’d survived on for two days. In the bottom, wrapped in a rag, he finds the bottle, tugging it up and fighting against his instincts telling him that this is a stupid endeavor, that they're older and _different_ and Paul wouldn’t want him like that again.

The glass thunks dully on the wooden tabletop, and Daryl swallows thickly, currents of electricity humming in his stomach. Paul looks at the bottle and then at him. 

“You said the next one was one me,” Daryl forces out, and even he can hear how much he chokes on the words. But they’re there now and they exist, just like all the things he doesn’t say in between them.

Paul’s hand wraps around the bottle and he pulls it across the surface. He tries to twist the top off first, but it isn’t that kind of bottle. So he puts it on the edge of the table and smacks the top, the lid popping off and pirouetting through the air before it and lands somewhere on the floor.

Blue-green eyes locked on Daryl, he takes the first sip and then offers it up. Daryl takes it from him, his fingers brushing over the tips of Paul’s, and he swears he can feel energy radiate from them and travel up his arm. His heart beats in his throat, and he wonders if Paul can see it trying to jump right out of his skin. And fuck if he doesn't want to claw it out and hand it to him because it's his anyway. 

As calmly as possible, Daryl takes his turn, passing it back over, and when Paul takes it he covers all of Daryl’s fingertips in a way that unmistakably intentional. Daryl exhales raggedly while he pulls his hand away.

Another turn. Daryl rubs over Paul's knuckles a little more boldly before taking the bottle. A sip, and Paul covers his fingertips again. Daryl doesn't pull it back this time, doesn't let them slide over his skin like before. And Paul takes advantage, slipping his fingers farther onto the bottle until he’s holding Daryl’s hand around the glass. Daryl thinks about that spot in his childhood home that always got a sliver of direct sunlight in the afternoons. How he’d take off his shoes and walk across that warmth before letting it soak into the tops of his feet. Paul’s hand is like that. A sliver of sunlight warming everything it touches.

Daryl can’t do anything but stare at it until Paul finally tugs away, his hand moving from Daryl’s like syrup. One more sip, and he sets the soda down on the tabletop unfinished. Daryl’s practically panting, his lungs struggling to pull enough oxygen from the air for him to function. He meets Paul's eyes again and feels dizzy, even dizzier still when Paul stands and crosses the space between them, straddling Daryl’s lap and sitting down on his knees.

And Daryl just stares up at him, lost in those eyes, in the closeness and warmth and intimacy. Calloused hands stroke his cheeks, each brush constricting his rib cage a little tighter. Something in his head whispers ‘love’ over and over and over until Daryl is overwhelmed with the overall everything of this moment. It’s too much, too much, too much.

“Truck fell in a river,” he blurts out, ears burning by the time the second syllable’s out of his mouth. The skin over Paul’s left eyebrow ripples like the sand beneath ocean waves. “That’s why we were late.”

Moron, moron, fucking moron. He moves a hand to Paul’s hip and hopes that’s enough to show him that he does want this. Every cell in his body is begging for it, calling out with want and hope and  _love, love, love_.

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” Paul asks, thumb skirting along Daryl’s jaw.

Daryl nods, breath catching and catching and catching when that same thumb ghosts over his lips. How could he ever fucking forget? 

“Just so we don’t have a repeat performance, I’m going to warn you this time.”

“Warn...”

“I’m about to kiss you, Daryl,” he says softly, hands moving from Daryl’s face into his hair. Seafoam eyes stare down at him with unbridled intensity, and all Daryl can do is nod again.

When Paul’s lips touch his, he swears the world falls apart. If seeing him again had the world turning upside down, this has it dissolving away completely, leaving nothing but infinity while they float together through starlight and all the births and deaths of creation.

Daryl finally tangles a hand in Paul’s hair, then another, gripping him like he’s afraid to let go and maybe he is. Maybe he always was.

Paul sighs into his mouth, writing love notes on Daryl’s tongue over and over again. And Daryl tries his best to do the same, to put everything he feels into this moment that stretches on and on, time unimportant in this space where they’re nothing but them.

When they finally stop, they come apart slowly, reluctantly.  _The_ kiss ends with more kisses, the aftershocks of an earthquake, some bigger than others. Some are small, delicate pecks; others futile attempts to separate that lead to more hands tangling, or fingers fisting into the fronts of shirts. When the fault line finally settles, Paul rests his forehead against Daryl’s, the tips of their noses touching, the air between them mutual property.

 _Love, love, love_.

“I was a few hours away from going to look for you,” Paul says, and Daryl can feel him tracing patterns between his shoulder blades like sigils. 

“I probably owe Aaron a sorry or two. Knew I’d missed our meetin and was a bit of a dick probably," Daryl says. "Then you were here waitin anyway.”

“I’m pretty sure Maggie knows I’m in love with you by the way,” Paul says. “She kept telling me you were fine, that you were always fine.”

“Not always.”

“You never told me about the gorge. I can’t believe you left that out.”

“The gor- oh.”

“She thinks a lot of you. Glenn do too,” Paul says. And Daryl closes his eyes, focusing on the sound of Paul breathing _—_ so steady, so alive. 

“You mean that?” Daryl asks. "What you said." 

“Mean what? That Maggie cares about you?” Paul asks, and Daryl shakes his head slightly, knowing Paul can feel the movement.

“Said you’re in love with me.”

“I mean everything I ever say about you, Daryl,” Paul says, pulling away and putting his hands on Daryl’s face again. Daryl’s hands twitch with the desire to mirror the action, to be like Aaron and Eric down by the gate. But he can’t quite get them to move the way he wants them to. He settles for moving them a little higher on Paul’s back instead. He ducks his head and nods.

“Ain’t just you.”

And maybe the fault line isn’t so settled after all. Because Paul leans down and kisses him again.

They stay like that a while longer, basking in the closeness of each other before Paul finally moves out of his lap. They finish the rest of the soda in the living room, passing it back and forth while they play cards well into the night.

Daryl finds he doesn’t even mind losing. Then again, he never did. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I always love to hear about your favorite parts. Drop me a line here or throw words at me on tumblr at DarylDixonGrimes.


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